


Sleep Is For the Weak

by pantheon_of_discord



Series: Season 13 Codas [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s13e04 The Big Empty, I think is what people are calling him?, Italics, M/M, POV Outsider, POV: Empty Guy, Post-Episode: s13e04 The Big Empty, Qstiel, i guess?, like so much italics, um it's kinda weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 20:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12615340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantheon_of_discord/pseuds/pantheon_of_discord
Summary: Demons, angels: they come here and they sleep. They live lives of light or darkness or fire or joy but then they die and it’slights out, kids. Everything sleeps. Everything is quiet and still and endless andnothingeverwakes up.Nothing ever has. There’s nothing that can wake up when there’s nothing to wake upto.Nothing’s ever woken up before, and nothing’s ever stomped around, leaving a slimy trail of ickyfeelingswherever it walks.





	Sleep Is For the Weak

Demons, angels: they come here and they sleep. They live lives of light or darkness or fire or joy but then they die and it’s _lights out_ , kids. Everything sleeps. Everything is quiet and still and endless and _nothing_ ever _wakes up_.

Nothing ever has. There’s nothing that can wake up when there’s nothing to wake up _to_.

Nothing’s ever woken up before, and nothing’s ever stomped around, leaving a slimy trail of icky _feelings_ wherever it walks.

It just _reeks_ of feelings. Confusion, fear, anger, wonder, hope. It’s revolting.

It’s an angel – or it was, before it was swallowed up by Earth and humanity and those nauseating _feelings_ , and then spat back out here, where it was _supposed_ to be sleeping.

But it’s not. Instead it’s marching around, demanding answers, making a sticky _mess_ of everything.

“Winchesters,” it says, and there’s that _hope_ again.

And this just _won’t_ do.

The inside of an angel’s brain – it isn’t supposed to be this sickeningly emotional. This angel, it’s _different_.

It’s seen a lot.

Wars and blood and creation and _life_ , like every other angel, every one of God’s teensy little foot soldiers that have come here to rest. Oh, and this angel, it _put_ so many of them here, oh yes, and there’s the _fear_ now. It fears their judgement.

It fears failure. It fears being _useless_. It fears death.

And this is interesting: this angel has died before. One, two, three four five times, too many times to count. It’s been here but then it’s left again (let’s chalk that up to _God_ , shall we) without ever waking. Until _now_.

It knows things and it fears things but more, more than this; two faces float to the surface. _Winchesters_ , it must be, and suddenly the angel’s head is just swimming in _love._ How very precious.

There are other faces, other memories, that drift past as well. A blonde girl with a backpack, walking by the side of a road; a woman lit by a single lamp, hunched over a worn, leather-bound notebook; a woman painting a wall, and the life that grows inside her; and then the two men again. And again, and again. And then just the one, over and over – drinking from a bottle, driving a car, singing to music, eating pizza at a table and smiling and _laughing_ and then the name rises up, front and centre and too loud to be ignored _Dean Dean DeanDeanDeanDean_.

It’s so much.

It’s _too_ much.

The angel gasps, groaning on the floor. It’s so _loud_. It needs to _shut_. _Up_.

It’s demanding _freedom_ now; righteous, still.

So very _annoying_. Trying to be _clever_.

“Sam and Dean,” it says again.

 _Enough_.

A kitchen, a cemetery, an old laboratory, a lake, a white room, a dark shoreline – death after miserable death – but through it all there’s that _face_ again. Here or there, it pops up; strange, how often that face is the last thing the angel sees before darkness falls.

It’s down again but it _just won’t sleep_. It’s not _listening_.

And it’s _defiant_ , now.

“I’m already saved.”

It isn’t necessary to see into its head again. That face, that _name_ , repeating again, projecting out without conscious though. _DeanDeanDeanDeanDean_.

The angel must not even realize just how _deafening_ that sound is. But now it’s spitting and cursing and issuing _threats_ and everything is getting so much _louder_.

Angels are supposed to be about falling in line. This. . . this will not _do_.

 

 

 

It’s more trouble than it’s worth, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Empty Guy was cool and also #relatable.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr.](https://pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com)


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